


The Girl Queen

by Blurgle



Category: The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death by mud, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 11:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10162487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blurgle/pseuds/Blurgle
Summary: At some point in 1524 or 1525 a groom named Edmund Moody saved the life of King Henry VIII during a hawking expedition near the town of Hitchin in Hertfordshire. This is the story of what happened when he did not.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esmeraude11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esmeraude11/gifts).



> I owe the bulk of the ideas underpinning this story, including the concept, to Esmeraude11, with whom I discussed this extensively. Any errors are however my fault.

6 May 1525  
St. Mary’s Priory, Hitchin, Hertfordshire

 

My first hint should have been the boy.

I had been sitting by the window that morning going over a letter which had just arrived from my sister-in-law Margaret of Scotland. It was a warm, sunny morning, a perfect day for hawking according to my lord husband, King Henry, who’d departed at dawn with his newest tercel and a handful of grooms but without his bosom companions (and, regrettably, procurers) William Compton and Anthony Denny. I’d sighed in relief at the sight of him disappearing into the forest without those two, firmly convinced that he was safer without them. 

Not before or since have I been proven so wrong.

I had just come to the end of a long litany of implausible accusations Margaret had made against her estranged husband and was considering my response when a halloo from outside the window interrupted my thoughts; I glanced up to see a befilthed young rider in full cry racing toward the priory on a finer horse than an urchin in his condition would normally be allowed to mount. I assumed he was on his way to fetch a priest for his master and mouthed a short prayer for the dying man’s soul, but a few minutes later the door opened behind me to admit two uncharacteristically nervous maids of honour. “What is it?” I asked, gesturing for them to rise from their shaky curtseys.

Mistress Seymour was the first to speak. “Father Prior conveys his regards, Majesty, and that – and that he…”

“And that he requests Your Majesty’s presence in his private parlour,” Mistress Boleyn finished, her voice only a touch calmer than Jane’s. “He bears a message of the King.”

I covered my confusion with a smile. “Then advise him I’ll be down presently – and fetch Lady Willoughby.”

“Yes, madam,” they chorused.

If you were not acquainted with my lord husband you might wonder why I accepted Prior Butler’s summons with such equanimity given that in the normal course of events he should have been the one to attend upon me, but let us be frank: my husband was a mercurial, temperamental man, one whose will I dared not oppose, and if he had ordered Father Prior to summon me I thought it best to obey without hesitation – although if you have read the above with care you will have already recognized my fatal error. My only defence is that it is a common mistake among Spaniards to confuse the words “of” and “from”, as in our native tongue the same word serves for both.

My ladies and I were ushered into the cramped parlour but waiting there to receive me was not John Butler but Thomas Wolsey, the Cardinal of England and my husband’s Lord High Chancellor. “Eminence,” I began – but then I saw the sympathy in his normally icy blue eyes.

Something was terribly wrong.

“Your Majesty must prepare yourself for distressing news,” he said, his voice gentler than I had ever heard it. “The King has suffered an injury on the hunt—”

My heart leapt into my throat. “What manner of injury?” I asked. “Has he fallen or…”

His lips thinned. “Madam, I am not yet certain. One of His Majesty’s grooms returned moments ago; he’s conveying Sir William and Master Denny to the site of the accident as we speak.”

“But is there nothing I can do? Can I not—”

“You may pray, madam, as will I – as will we all.”

Thus warned, I allowed María Willoughby to lead me to the prior's prie-dieu where I sunk to my knees and beseeched God and the Virgin to preserve my husband’s life. He’d fallen before – in the tiltyard, on the hunt, even during a dance – and had never suffered more than a bad bruise, but Wolsey’s unexpected compassion and the furious whispers of the grooms in the hallway had me nearly immobile with fear.

I must have been on my knees for the better part of an hour when a cough brought me to my feet; Sir William was in the doorway, his haunted, hollow eyes driving home the news he bore with crushing finality. “He’s dead,” I said.

Compton hung his head. “Madam, I cannot—”

“He’s dead."

He met my gaze again, then nodded.

I have no memories of the hour that followed that awful, life-shattering nod; I can only assume that God in His infinite wisdom has chosen to cleanse my mind of it. Nan – or Mistress Boleyn, as I knew her then – tells me I reacted with queenly dignity, making the sign of the cross before calmly demanding to be told everything, although whether Sir William complied I cannot say; my next memory is of myself and a small group of men and women – the Cardinal, his servants, María and Nan, and my guards – galloping down the Great North Road toward the Bishop of Ely’s house at Hatfield, where our daughter Mary was waiting to take her leave before departing for Ludlow to take up her responsibilities as Princess of Wales.

It had only been in March of that year that Henry had finally agreed to send Mary to lead the Council of the Marches. He hadn’t bothered to invest her formally as Princess of Wales, an omission I’d assumed at the time was a nod to English custom, but in all other ways he’d signalled his approval of her as his successor and the next sovereign lady of England. But as our horses approached the post house at Knebworth Park I gasped in sudden shock; my daughter would never reach Ludlow, would never sit on the Council, would never learn the art of kingship from men of wisdom and sagacity as had her uncle Arthur. She would instead be flung into the rôle of Queen of England at the age of nine – and the blackness of my despair descended upon me yet again. He was gone, he was _gone_ —

But the cares of kings do not pause for grief, and as we waited to change horses I forced myself to draw Cardinal Wolsey aside. “Eminence, a word, if you would.”

He led me into a private room. “Has Your Majesty come to a decision regarding Master Fitzroy?”

I froze: what was he—

“There are a number of secure yet comfortable monasteries in the West Country, far from both sea and city,” he continued. “My personal suggestion would be the Greyfriars’ establishment at Salisbury…madam?”

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I confessed, my self-control falling into tatters as I dropped into the nearest chair. “I don’t remember anything since Sir William – since he…”

Wolsey waited patiently as I struggled – more patiently than I would have had the tables been turned, if I am to be brutally honest; by the time I’d regained my composure he’d poured me a goblet of wine and had taken out his rosary. “I can only thank you for your consideration and tolerance,” I said to him once I’d finished the wine. “I trust I did not give any irresponsible orders after…”

His eyes filled once again with sympathy. “I can assure Your Majesty that you acted with utmost propriety. Your only orders were to have the King’s body brought to the priory church to be guarded for the time being by Sir William, Master Denny, and the groom Edmund Moody, and to have the bodies of the other grooms buried anonymously in the corner of the parish cemetery without delay.”

My head snapped up. “Other – was there an ambush? Should we send word ahead to Hatfield?”

But he was already shaking his head. “No ambush, madam, only negligence and terrible vengeance. I do not know if you wish to hear the details…”

“I do not but I must," I said, gesturing to the chair across from me. "Please, tell me all you can.”

He eased himself into the chair with a grimace, taking a moment to marshal his thoughts. “As Your Majesty knows, the King left the priory early this morning with the intention of running one of his tercels in the Great Park,” he began. “As he rode along the river, however, his courser began to favour a foreleg; he accordingly sent the unfortunate beast back with young Moody with orders to return with a fresh horse. He then set his hawk to hunt. It flew across the river and His Majesty attempted to follow it by vaulting over the ditch, but his pole broke and he plunged head-first into the muddy riverbank.”

I felt my blood run cold. “And did the grooms not pull him out?”

“They were afraid to touch his person, madam, not even to save his life. When Moody returned he immediately did all he could to save the King but his pulse had by then fallen still and his soul had departed. I am sorry, madam.”

God must have known I was still needed on this earth, for only His strength could have preserved my life at that moment. “And the other grooms?” I somehow found the courage to ask. “How did they die?”

The corners of his mouth turned down. “When Master Moody returned to the priory to raise the alarum he found Sir William and Anthony Denny in the stables and led them to the scene. Denny exploded with rage after hearing the boys’ pathetic excuses and without warning cut them down where they stood.”

I cannot claim to have survived that interview in full control of my emotions; even a queen has her limits. But as I dried my tears and turned to leave I chanced to glance over my shoulder to find the Cardinal still in his chair, rosary in hands and eyes tightly closed, his lips moving in silent and fervent supplication. Who was he praying for, I wondered as I stared in open-mouthed shock; Henry, Mary, or himself?

Perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised me to see a man of God at prayer but Wolsey was as unlike the gaunt, fanatical cardinals of my childhood as any man who had ever breathed. Venal, loyal, avaricious, vain, and supremely competent at all he set his mind to, he had always struck me as a man of the world and not of faith; godly or not, though, he was the only man capable of helping me hold England at the moment, and I knew what I had to do. “There is one other matter, Eminence,” I began uneasily as he opened his eyes and rose to join me. “It is my understanding that the great offices of state normally fall vacant at the death of the sovereign. We have long been adversaries and I can only assume – I am named Regent in my husband’s will, am I not?”

“In the will he deposited with me last October, yes, madam.”

“Then I must assume that you would prefer to dedicate yourself to your duties as Archbishop and Cardinal rather than take orders from me.”

He paled, but I forged ahead before he could answer. “If that is the case, I must ask you – no, beg you – to reconsider. My daughter needs men of proven ability at her side as she learns the business of governance, and I…and I will need your help as well. If you will continue in the office of Lord Chancellor of England I would be truly grateful.”

Naturally he was wary of me; I was just as wary of him. But I was gambling on his dedication to the realm and his love of challenges – and what greater challenge could there be than to hold a fractious, divided realm together for a nine-year-old girl?

“It will be difficult, madam,” he finally said after a moment’s thought. “There will be those who quail to bend the knee to a Queen Regnant and others who will resent her Spanish heritage.”

“And those who will seek to dilute that heritage with their own sons’ blood.”

“Quite so.” He examined my face, then nodded as if he’d come to a decision. “I accept Your Majesty’s offer and give you my word before God that I will do all I can to advise, guide, and support the Queen to the best of my abilities.”

“I thank you with all my heart, Eminence. Before we take the road again, I must however ask about Henry Fitzroy. Why did I think to immure him in a monastery, and why so soon? He’s only five years old; he’s no threat.”

“Your concern, madam, was as much for his own safety as for your daughter the Queen’s,” he replied. “Master Fitzroy is a delicate child and you were concerned he might suffer harm should a faction or even a foreign power abduct him with the intention of setting him up as a pretender. There are, I fear, those who would try.”

“Hence the West Country monastery,” I murmured. “Very well; if you think Salisbury a fit place for him please make arrangements at once – but he is to be treated with care and dignity. I would also ask that Lady Bryan break the news of his father’s death to him, and that he be allowed to keep his toys and pets. He is of an age to remember any insult offered him; we must not give him a reason to hate my daughter.”

He eyed me shrewdly. “Very wise, madam. I can only wonder why…” But he pressed his lips together with a shake of the head.

As our party remounted and continued down the road toward Hatfield I turned my mind away from Fitzroy – a sweet boy despite his origins – to how I would tell Mary of her father’s death. I had no intentions of revealing all, of course; what child needs to hear such horrible truths? There had been mud in his throat, as I was told later; mud in his throat, in his nose, under the nails of the fingers he’d broken trying to claw his way to the surface. He'd fought so hard with every fibre of his being to survive and yet not one of the grooms in attendance had so much as lifted a finger to help him. They’d just stood there like slack-jawed mules, staring stupidly as their lord and master choked to death in the stinking filth of a muddy riverbank…

You may be assured that I have never blamed Anthony Denny for killing those pathetic wastrels. Had it been me holding the sword I would not have been so merciful.

We reached Hatfield just as a bank of low clouds arrived to blot out the early afternoon sun. I’d hoped to surprise Mary at her lessons but she’d spotted us through the window and was waiting in the front gallery with Lady Salisbury and most of her household: waiting, I suspected, to show off the elegant curtsey she’d been practicing all spring. But before she could make the attempt I took her and everyone in the room by surprise, myself included, by falling to my knees and bowing so deeply that the brim of my travelling cap grazed the rushes. There was a pause, a great chorus of gasps, and then shocked silence as every man and woman dropped to their knees to join me.

“God save Queen Mary!” Wolsey cried. “God save the Queen!”

“God save the Queen!” the company replied as one.

I glanced up as Mary made her way slowly toward us, her eyes bright with anguish and shock. But she did not falter; she understood what had happened, knew why she’d been hailed Queen, and yet she carried herself with a grace and dignity I had only seen before in one other woman: my own mother. “Your Majesty, I bid you rise,” she said, her voice as clear as the finest bell. “His Grace of Ely and I welcome you to Hatfield House. Will you be so kind as to join me in my apartments?”

“I am Your Majesty’s humble servant,” I replied.

We left the gallery, Mary holding herself together by little more than sheer force of will until the moment the doors to her rooms closed behind us and she fell to pieces into my arms, torrents of tears pouring down her face. “Mama, no!”

“I am so sorry, _mi cielo_ ,” I said as she sobbed out her heart against my shoulder. “God has taken Papa to Heaven and I am so very, very sorry.”

“I’m not – Papa!”

Gently and with great care Lady Salisbury and I manoeuvred her into her bedchamber where she could cry as long and as hard as she wanted without anyone being the wiser. Queen or not she had just lost her adored father, the man I fondly imagined was watching over her with pride and joy at that very moment.

If I had only known – but no, that is for another day.


End file.
